


College Parties are Overrated (Everyone Should Trick-or-Treat)

by kototyph



Series: Halloween Trick or Treat Ficlets [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dean is Going to Be So Pissed, M/M, Puppy Love, Someone Gets a Cluebat, Underage Drinking, You Know Sam Would Be that Kid that Sorted and Tallied All His Halloween Candy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:30:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are <em>so</em> fucking gone," Sam laughs, then, "Oh, shit. You're so gone, Cas, what are we doing, Dean is going to—"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For [sassyhalloween2012](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/sassyhalloween2012) \- last-minute entry!

"Okay. I've got seven Tootsie Rolls—"

"Barf," Dean grumbles.

"— fifteen Reeses Peanut Butter cups, if you count the Reeses Pieces—"

"I do like peanut butter," Castiel says thoughtfully.

"—and, oh _gross_ , Almond Joys—"

"Sam, Almond Joys are excellent," Castiel insists. "I find coconut to be especially—"

"God, shut _up,"_ Dean moans into his pillow. "Would you two just leave me to die in peace?"

He's curled up into a tight, miserable ball on top of his sheets, still fully dressed in the shiny helmet and plastic vambraces of the Roman centurion's costume he'd worn to some college Halloween party. From their positions on Dean's bedroom floor, Sam and Castiel exchange rueful looks.

Well, Sam is trying to exchange a rueful look. What he gets back is more of a blank, glazed stare, his brother's friend listing slightly to the right as he once again begins to lose the fight against gravity; if Castiel had drunk half as much at that party as Dean evidently had, Sam is amazed he's not tossing his cookies in the bathroom right now.

"Oh, sorry," Sam says loudly, enjoying the way it makes Dean whimper and curl up further like a prodded caterpillar. "What was that? 'Sorry for ditching you for college kids, Sam'? 'Sorry for making you cover for me with Dad all night, Sam'? Sorry for being such a jerkface in general, Sam'—?"

"Actually—" Castiel starts.

"Sarcasm," Sam shoots at him, because being friends with Dean has cured Castiel of most of his homeschooled awkwardness but it looks like being wasted brings it out again.

Dean manages a garbled "Fuck you" that sounds like it got knifed and left for dead in an alley.

"Yeah, that's right," Sam mutters, starting to gather all the neat piles of his candy haul back into the pillowcase he's gone trick-or-treating with. If Dean thinks he can weasel even one dinky box of Junior Mints out of Sam after this, he was sorely mistaken.

Sam stands and holds out a hand to Castiel, who blinks at it owlishly, then up at him from the beige carpet.

"Dean can drown in his own puke for all I care," Sam tells him. "That doesn't mean you have to sleep on his floor and watch him do it."

"Saaaaam," Dean whines.

"Deeeeean," Sam mocks him, pulling a very uncoordinated Castiel to his shaky feet.

"'M dying. Gimme a glass of water or something."

Sam huffs out a breath, looping Castiel's arm over his shoulders and taking most of the other boy's weight. "I'm gonna put Cas to bed. Then water. If you're lucky, I might even bring you Tylenol with it."

"Awesome," Dean mumbles, voice already faint with sleep. "M'head fucking kills."

"And whose fault is that, anyway?" Sam asks, but Dean's eyes are already closed, and he doesn't respond. With a last muttered, "Jerk," Sam drags Castiel with him out of the room, turning off the light as he goes.

"I can walk, Sam," Castiel tells him, with an edge of pissiness that's adorable when the guy can't even keep his head upright. It lolls against Sam's shoulder, Castiel's skin almost feverishly hot, breath coming out warm and damp against Sam's throat.

"Sure you can," Sam soothes, and suppresses a shiver.

It's a long walk down the hall to the guest bedroom's pull-out couch, with Castiel swaying and tripping over nothing every few steps, Sam struggling to keep them both standing and moving in a generally couchwardly direction. Sam is taller, but he and Cas probably weigh the same— this year, Sam had trick-or-treated as a cupid, because Ruby thought it was hysterically funny— Sam, covered in glitter and sporting tiny white wings, gangly as fuck, big hands and big feet and all bony lankiness in between.

Castiel bounces when Sam drops him on the horrible gingham pull-out they'd inherited from some colorblind aunt years ago, and Sam says, "Sorry, sorry. You need help pulling all that off or are you good to go?"

After the few moments it takes for the words percolate through, Castiel looks down at himself, costume identical to Dean's right down to the fake-leather calf guards.

"There are—buckles?" he says doubtfully.

There are indeed buckles, a literal _shit-ton_ of buckles, and Castiel isn't helping the process at all leaning on Sam while he fights with the cheap fabric and broken zippers and twisted knots. This close, with Castiel draped all over him, all Sam can smell is beer and cigarette smoke, mixed with something candy-sweet and sickly that might be jello shots, or pot, or whatever girl rubbed up against him while he was too piss-drunk to protest—

Sam realizes, abruptly, that he's sliding Castiel's pleated skirt-thing down past his knees and Castiel is now naked but for briefs and a red, red flush, burning its way across his chest and, when Sam sits back on his heels to look up at him, his cheeks. His eyes are so blue like this, heavy-lidded and dark, and the way he's looking at Sam—

—at Sam's _mouth—_

"Uh," Sam says, before Castiel's face sort of collides with his and oh _fuck_ , Dean is going to kill him. Kill him, dance on his grave, dig him up and set fire to his bones. If, _Jesus,_ if Castiel doesn't kill him first, making the most incredible noises against Sam's bruised lips, gasps and hitching breaths and broken-off demands of "Sam," and "I want," and " _Please_ —"

Sam doesn't mean to, he swears. It's just that he's had this crush on Castiel for so long and Cas' hands are clumsy but they're perfect where they pull at his t-shirt and fumble with the tie of his pajama pants, Sam tipping them both back onto the couch and Castiel giggling, _giggling,_ wrapping his arms around Sam's neck and kissing him with hungry abandon, lips and teeth and tongue mostly landing in the vicinity of his mouth. Mostly.

"You are so fucking gone," Sam laughs, then, "Oh, shit. You are so gone, Cas, what are we doing, Dean is going to—"

"You are shutting up," Castiel informs him imperiously, hooking a leg around his waist. "We are making out like we've wanted to since you turned fifteen, and Dean will fucking deal with it."

"Cas," Sam whispers, entranced with the way the curse tastes in Castiel's mouth when he leans in to lick it up, how Castiel responds with even more fervency.

"Sam," he groans, hands moving restlessly over Sam's back, "Touch me, _now_ ," and Sam has no problems following that order. None at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean hurts.

His head hurts. His eyes hurt. His throat, when a less than manly whimper works its way out of his aching lungs, _hurts_. Oh God, he hurts _everywhere_.

He sucks in a breath and it sounds like a death rattle. "Sam?" he croaks, very slowly unclenching a fist and patting blindly over the sheets. "Cas?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

More silence.

"Guys."

Stony, impenetrable silence.

He drags himself to the edge of the bed, costume armor glued to his skin with a disgusting sticky mixture of sweat and what smells like wine cooler. "Guys, please," he tries again, "You there?"

His gummy eyes finally come unstuck, and the sunlight hits them like a solid strike from a claw hammer, the blow echoing through his head like his skull is made of breaking glass. He winces away from the pain—

"Ah, _fuck—"_

— and falls off right the goddamn bed.

And okay, he was wrong. _Now_ he hurts everywhere.

It's a long time before he gathers the willpower to stagger to his feel, hunched over and swallowing repeatedly against the roiling greasy pit of nausea that's taken the place of his stomach. His body refuses to come all the way out of the fetal position, so he slumps into the hallway like— hah— like some kind of Halloween monster, Shelley's Frankenstein squinting blearily down the hall towards Sam's room with a hand clamped over its mouth.

"Sam?" he tries again, a raspy whisper through his fingers. "Cas?"

Sam's door is open, but his room is dark and unoccupied. Next to it, though, the guestroom door is closed. Huh.

Dean lurches down the hall, using the wall to keep himself balanced in a mostly upright position. The pounding in his head is getting worse with each step, the floor starting to swim underneath him, and when he reaches to grab hold of the doorknob he finds himself sliding down into a heap against the door.

The rolling drumbeat of his headache is making it difficult to think about anything else, or he might have realized that opening the door would dump him on his ass before he did it. "M'therf'cker," he tells the carpet his face is suddenly mashed in.

"What the— Dean?" Sam yelps. "You can't fucking knock?"

"But I'm dying," he tries to say, ends up moaning "Uuuurgh," instead, and cranes his head up towards his brother's voice.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel says calmly, naked as a jay, sitting in Sam's equally naked lap.

Dean blinks.

Still naked.

Dean blinks again.

Yep, that's Sam. And Cas. Together. Naked. On the couch where they all play Mario Kart on weekends.

"I'm going to have to kill both of you, you realize," Dean says, in what he thinks is a very reasonable tone.

"I would rather you didn't," Castiel says, completely ignoring Sam's increasingly frantic attempts to alternately pull away and cover his junk.

Dean raises a shaking finger to point accusingly. "You should of thought of that before you— did— something with my brother!"

"I can explain," Sam says shrilly, hands cupped over his lap.

"Dean," Castiel sighs.

"And Sam! You— _did something_ with my best friend!"

"Dean, really, I—"

"You both _did something_ with each other, that's like five different bro codes broken just so you could— _do_ _something_ —"

"Handjobs," Castiel says loudly, projecting above Dean's ranting and Sam's babbling, because the sneaky little bastard has everyone else fooled but Dean knows he's a fucking _jackass_ behind his polite choirboy exterior. "Handjobs, and the promise of a blowjob, which is becoming a more and more distant possibility the longer you spend congealing on the floor. Go away, Dean."

"Dishonor on you," Dean hisses, "Dishonor on your— ohgodmgonnabesick."

Two facts very high on the list of things Dean did not, under any circumstances, ever need to know are A) Sam manscapes and B) Cas caught _coitus interruptus_ is mean as a junkyard dog, 'accidentally' slamming Dean into every single door, table and counter on their rushed retreat to the bathroom. Sam keeps Dean's head up and over the toilet, and Castiel sits on the edge of the bathtub next to him, making snide comments about Rhonda Hurley and asking if Dean's still wearing those pretty pink panties under his fancy belted skirt.

Sam unsuccessfully stifles a snort and Dean moans "It's a balteus, douchebags," between heaves. "Both of you, I swear to God— _ugh—"_

Later, when he's lying on the couch in proper pajamas with a cold cloth over his eyes, he starts thinking more rationally about the subject.

"Sam could go to military school," he reasons out loud. "There are plenty of other dudes—"

"No, Dean."

"He could wear a chastity belt."

"Dean!"

"Or I could just castr—"

"Dean," Castiel says tightly. "Do you remember what I said when you were sleeping with Anna?"

Dean chokes mid-sentence. "Uh."

"Nothing, Dean. I said _nothing_."

"I, uh. Didn't know you knew about that?"

Castiel makes a sound of deep annoyance and Sam, the traitor—the _friendfucker—_ starts laughing his ass off. "Yeah, 'cause you guys were so freaking _subtle_."

"Shut up, bitch!"

"Catch a clue, jerk! You've got no leg to stand on, let it go."

"I can't just—"

"Let. It. _Go._ "

Dean stews in silence. Castiel and Sam go on making breakfast, various clinks and thunks and weird gloppy batter noises that he hopes means pancakes are in the offing. Not that he forgives either of them for doing— things. But _pancakes._

"There will be rules," he announces.

"Oh?" Castiel asks, impressively subzero.

"Yeah," Dean says defiantly. "First of all, no _doing things_ where I can see you. No kissing. No touching each other up in the guestroom. No nothing."

"Dean," Sam groans, like they're eight and twelve and Dean's making fart noises with his armpit in public.

" _No nothing_. Secondly, if either one of you girls breaks the other one's heart, I'm going to straight up murder you."

"Really, Dean?"

" _Yeah_ really! Because you'd better really fucking love each other— be in, like, over-the-moon Romeo-and-Juliette-type crap— if I'm going to be expected to tolerate any of this bullshit."

Silence.

"Sam."

More silence.

"Sam? Cas?"

Suspiciously soft, heated silence.

"... you fuckers are kissing right now, aren't you."

"You can't see us," Castiel points out smugly.

"That's not the point, goddamnit!"


End file.
